


don't start none, won't be none

by ceserabeau



Series: Sterek AU One shots [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M, One Shot, The Losers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the untrained eye he doesn’t appear to be anything more than a college kid, but Derek’s met enough spooks in his life to know what one looks like. </p><p>The Losers AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't start none, won't be none

A shot glass lands on the bar next to Derek’s plate. “Salud,” a voice says. Spanish accent, Derek notes; generic, no clear dialect. “How’s the steak?”

Derek glances at the man next to him. It’s the guy he saw at the cockfighting ring, the one with the freckled skin and wide eyes. He’s still in those tight red jeans, at-shirt just this side of too tight. To the untrained eye he doesn’t appear to be anything more than a college kid, but Derek’s met enough spooks in his life to know what one looks like.

“Meaty,” he says, and adjusts his grip on the knife, just in case. “Want a bite?”

The guy drags his eyes up Derek’s chest, lets his gaze linger on the open collar of his shirt, the line of his neck. His hand comes up to grasp the curve of Derek’s bicep, thumb rubbing over the muscle. “Maybe later,” he says, and smirks.  

Derek squints at him. “Do I know you?” he asks around a bite of steak.

He must sound more suspicious than he means to because the guy squeezes his arm, says, “Relax, papi.” His eyes are too bright for Derek’s liking, like he’s laughing at him.

“Do I not look relaxed?”

“No,” the guy says. He leans in close enough that Derek can see the flicker of his pulse beneath the fragile skin of his neck. “Think we can change that?”

By the time they make it to the hotel, Derek has found out that the guy’s name is Stiles but not much else. He’s very good at misdirection, talking in circles, distracting Derek with that secretive little smile.

Upstairs he pushes Stiles ahead of him along the corridor, pressing his hand to the small of his back to feel for the knives, the gun he suspects are hidden there. To his surprise Stiles pushes back into the touch and Derek’s fingers slip beneath his shirt to feel the smooth skin beneath. There’s nothing there, but when he knocks Stiles’ boot with his own he feels the distinct shape of a gun.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Stiles asks, low and soft: _his_ _bedroom voice_ , Derek thinks.

He presses in close, puts his hands on Stiles’ hips and his mouth to his ear. “Not yet,” he whispers, and feels Stiles shiver.

The room he’s renting is cheap, convenient, and it looks like what it is. Stiles lets out a low whistle when he sees it. “Wow,” he drawls; “This is everything a boy could dream of.”

Derek finds himself chuckling. “Well, I try.”

Stiles wanders around the room, looking at the paintings on the wall, out the window at Main Street below. When he gets to the bathroom, he peers inside at the chipped tiles and peeling paint.

“You mind?”

When Derek nods, he smiles, all teeth, and vanishes inside. Derek stares at the closed door for a moment before moving to the drawer. He considers his weapons but eventually decides against them. Stiles might be small and lithe, but Derek is bigger, stronger, and if the guy’s baby face is anything to judge by, a lot more experienced.

“What brings you to Bolivia?” Stiles asks through the door.

Derek cracks his back, stretches out his shoulders. He wonders if Stiles is doing the same on the other side. “Cruise ship,” he calls back.

There’s a long moment of silence from the bathroom. Then: “This is a landlocked country.”

“It’s an amazing cruise ship.”

Derek looks up when the door opens, creaking on its hinges. Stiles leans against the doorway, hips cocked in a way that Derek finds alarmingly enticing. He almost wishes the night could go a different way.

“Where were we?” Stiles asks.

“Well,” Derek says as Stiles pushes off the wall and stalks across the room towards him, “I think you were about to tell me why you enjoy following me.”

He expects Stiles’ face to shutter but instead his eyes just light up, interested. “You saw me, didn’t you,” he says, more statement than question.  

“I did.”

Stiles steps in close to Derek, a wall of lithe muscle that feels good pressed up against him. One of his hands snakes around Derek’s waist, and he strokes down the muscles of Derek’s back, fingers searching for the gun that’s actually in the bedside drawer. The other hand vanishes behind his own back, where Derek is sure his gun is now tucked. When Derek narrows his eyes, Stiles just smiles.

“I bet you didn’t see me on Mercado Street,” he says cheekily. “Not that it matters. I have a business proposition for you, Derek.”

Derek blinks: the soft Spanish tones have fallen away, revealing the American underneath. California if Derek isn’t mistaken, but he keeps his face carefully blank. “What happened to your accent?”

Stiles’ answering smile is coy. “ _Oops_.”

The click of the safety is loud in the room. Derek swings before Stiles can move, catches him with a glancing blow across the cheek. He stumbles backwards but he’s fast, faster than Derek expected, pivoting, bringing the gun up to aim at Derek’s face. In the split second before he pulls the trigger, Derek gets a look at his eyes: dark, angry, brimming with an unexpected hatred that makes Derek shiver down to his bones.

The gun goes off but Derek has already moved. The noise of the explosion makes him jolt, ears ringing as the bullet thuds into the wall behind him. Stiles snarls and follows his movement, but Derek gets in another hit and the gun goes flying, skidding under the wardrobe. Stiles dives after it. Derek manages to get a foot into his stomach that sends him tumbling in the opposite direction.

When Stiles looks up, his face is dark. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he growls.

“You’re not going to,” Derek tells him, and cracks his knuckles.

Stiles bares his teeth in response, sharp and vicious like an animal. “Yes I am.”

He comes at Derek again, throwing whatever’s close by in his direction: a chair, the TV, the half empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. Something sparks nearby, a flash of light, and there’s a rush of heat as something catches alight, flames starting to lick across the carpet, up the walls.

Stiles doesn’t even spare it a glance. He’s moving again, long limbs a blur as he comes towards Derek again. Derek doesn’t even pause: he charges, catching Stiles around the waist and propelling him backwards until he hits the wall. His palms curl around the back of his neck, his hip, as Stiles’ leg hooks over his shoulder, intimate except for where there’s blood in both their mouths.

Stiles grins. “This is cosy,” he murmurs, then shoves hard enough that Derek goes flying, falling backwards until he hits the carpet with a thud, Stiles still on top of him.

A knife appears out of nowhere, a flash of silver that Derek barely manages to block as Stiles brings it down towards his throat. He keeps his grip steady on Stiles’ wrist as the other hand reaches out desperately, searching for something, anything to use.

His fingers close over the shattered leg of the chair and he brings it up to Stiles’ throat just as Stiles pulls free from his grip and lays the blade along his jugular. Everything goes silent and still, except for the crackle of the fire as it dances around the room.

“What do you want?” Derek snarls, feeling the knife scrape over his skin. He presses the sharp end of the stake into Stiles’ neck.

The knife digs in, relents. “I can help you find Deucalion,” Stiles says.

Around them the room is burning, fire licking orange along the walls, and Derek can’t tell if the heat in his stomach is from the flames or Stiles’ dark stare.

**Author's Note:**

> Might be more to come, we'll see.


End file.
